Upon This Grave Poem by Ravi Panamanna

Light not a lamp
Upon this grave.
In it may perish
Little flies.

Plant not a tree
upon this grave.
In it may sit a nightingale
and sing a lamenting song.

Write not an epitaph
Upon this grave.
It may fade
In the course of passing winds.

Drop not a tear
upon this grave.
In it lies a living yore,
Iam swept into an unknown shore.

Seasons are my friends,
Every spring is an endless cascade.
Here, the passing winds are mine
The dale of love is synonym.